


what deep roots you have (all the better to hold you down).

by uncaringerinn



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, Verbal Foreplay, Werewolf!Billy, Werewolf!Will, but it's def an au, don't ask me what this is because i legit don't have an answer, fistfights as foreplay, hunter!Steve, policeofficer!Lucas, policeofficer!Max, receptionist!Dustin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-04-29 23:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14484051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncaringerinn/pseuds/uncaringerinn
Summary: “Anyway,” Nancy carries on, “The caller has reason to believe the cabin’s new occupant might be a lone wolf.”“Okay,and?” There’s a pound of thunder outside, rattles the floor beneath Steve’s feet.“He might beunregistered,” Jonathan finishes, taking a sip out of his mug and looking satisfied, like heknowsthis is too good for Steve to pass up.Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “You got a name?”“William Hargrove."





	1. one.

When Steve shows up to work on Tuesday morning, it’s cold and damp and grey. Rain splatters against the glass of the window in a slow tempo that’s enough to almost coax his eyes shut. He slept a full five hours last night and he’s still _so tired_.

Nancy’s got her glasses perched on the tip of her nose; she looks like she hasn’t slept at all and she probably hasn’t. There are documents spread out in a mess across her desk, pictures too, all red-drenched and violent.

Steve casts his gaze over to Jonathan, “Has she gone home?”

“The righteous never sleep,” Jonathan says with a roll of his eyes but his voice holds a teasing lilt.

In the same beat Nancy sighs, “I just want to make sure we’re covering all our bases with the Strickland chase.”

“The fucking _vampire_ ,” Steve groans. “Nance, we got the go ahead for that hunt from the _state_. We don’t need to _cover_ anything. They came to us. That chase was legitimate.”

Nancy looks up from the paper she’s holding, “Devil’s in the details.” She pauses before saying, “Besides, there’s a call that came in this morning.”

Jonathan pipes up, “Someone just moved into that old cabin out by Lovers' Lake.”

“The haunted one?” Steve asks with mild disinterest, thumbing the edge of a stack of files precariously close to falling off the side of his desk.

“Ghosts don’t _exist_ , Steve,” Nancy says, exasperated, because they have this conversation way too often for her _not_ to get irritated about it.

“Right, because of all the shit we deal with on a daily basis, _ghosts_ are the one thing that can’t be _real_.”

“Anyway,” she carries on, “The caller has reason to believe the cabin’s new occupant might be a lone wolf.”

“Okay, _and_?” There’s a pound of thunder outside, rattles the floor beneath Steve’s feet.

“He might be _unregistered_ ,” Jonathan finishes, taking a sip out of his mug and looking satisfied, like he _knows_ this is too good for Steve to pass up.

“You want me to go?” Steve asks. 

“They are your specialty,” Nancy mutters as she squints at a particularly gruesome photograph before scribbling something down in her notepad.

Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “You got a name?”

“William Hargrove. Jonathan’s got the folder,” She says as Jonathan holds out said folder for Steve to take. “Information is limited. Find out what you can.”

Jonathan smiles at him as Steve turns to grab his coat, “Happy hunting.”

\--

The rain is persistent, sluicing down his windshield in rivers before being swiped off the glass by his wipers. He kills the engine; the trail leading up to the cabin is about a quarter-mile out from where he turned off the main road.

Steve could have driven right up to the front door, but that’s the whole thing about hunting: you don’t want them to know you’re coming.

He checks his watch, blinks wearily at the numbers glowing back at him: 9:43 am. His bat sits in the passenger seat, studded with silver nails and still crusted with blood from the last time he used it.

Weapons come off as aggressive and this is just a hunt, not a chase.

He leaves the bat in the truck.

\--

The walk isn’t as long as Steve expected; the damp air and November chill keep him wide awake and moving quickly.

He steps on the porch at 9:59 am.

There isn’t a doorbell, so Steve knocks loudly, knuckles scraping against rough wood. He can see the lake from here; it’s a nice view. Maybe he should buy a cabin-

The front door swings open and a man, looking remarkably similar in age to Steve, leans heavily against the door frame. He’s shirtless, plaid pajama pants slung so low on his hips that it’s evident he’s not wearing any underwear underneath.

“William Hargrove?” Steve asks, voice rougher than he intends.

“ _Billy_ ,” the man corrects, one eye squinted shut beneath a mop of curly blonde hair as the other adjusts to the overcast grey daylight. “Do _not_ call me William.”

“My apologies, Mr. Hargrove. My name is Steve Harrington. I’m a building inspector? I’ve been sent by the city to-“

Billy leans into Steve, shifting up from the doorframe to stand at his full height. Both eyes are open now, a clear and stunning blue. They look into to Steve’s own as Billy dips his head just the faintest bit and _sniffs_ , slow and deep.

Billy pulls back, cocks his head to the side. The movement reveals a long, curved string of gnarled, jagged scar tissue that drapes across the length of his left shoulder, scraping savagely over his collarbone. Steve takes note of that; not because it’s a bite, but because it’s not a _clean_ bite.

_Nonconsensual_ , Steve thinks and that makes things _interesting_.

“From the fucking city, huh?” Billy drawls, lips stretching back over teeth in a fake-patient smile. “Had the inspector come out before I moved in. Everything was _peachy_.”

“Yes, but upon further review of the documents-“

Billy’s grin becomes a sneering, mean thing that stirs the blood in Steve’s veins, irate and heady, “Listen, _Mr. Harrington_ , you’re not gonna pull the wool over my eyes.” He drops his gaze down to Steve’s chest, rakes them over his arms and wrists, asks, “Where’s your brand?”

Steve narrows his eyes, “Excuse me?”

“I know a pile of shit when I smell it,” Billy sneers, takes one step closer into Steve’s space. “And trust me, sweetheart, you _reek_.”

Steve laughs, low and void of humor. Being rude isn’t a substantial enough reason to give chase, but goddamn, if Steve isn’t chomping at the bit now.

“You’re a hunter,” Billy continues. “So show me your fucking brand.”

Steve’s jaw clenches tight, but he yanks up the sleeve of his jacket, bares his forearm for the other man to see.

The brand is ugly, born of a struggle and slow to heal; the thick letters matted against fresh flesh in a way that makes Steve flinch every time he sees it. He never was very good at taking care of old wounds.

“ _Venator_.” Billy snorts. “What the fuck do you want then?”

“Where’s your pack?” Steve asks flatly as he covers up his arm.

“Don’t have one.”

“You’re a stray then?”

Billy tenses, veritable hackles raised, “Yeah, I’m a fucking _stray_.”

“Do you have your registration?”

“Yeah.”

“May I see it, please?” Steve’s bordering on impatient, and Billy Hargrove is testing his limits.

“I haven’t unpacked yet. It’s mixed in with all of my shit.” Billy offers him a syrupy-sweet smile, “You are, of course, welcome to wait while I look for it, but it might take awhile and you look like you might have better things to do.”

This time, Steve pushes into Billy’s space, deliberate and slightly hostile, “You have one week to bring me your documentation. Do _not_ make me come back out here, Hargrove.” Steve turns and takes his leave.

“Why not?” Billy calls when Steve’s halfway down the porch steps. “I always did _love_ a good chase.”

Even after Billy shuts the door, Steve swears he can hear the laughter from the other side.

\--

“How did it go?” Jonathan asks upon Steve’s return.

“I’m going to fucking _murder_ that man.” Steve seethes, because he’s angry and he’s done nothing but think about Billy’s white, white smile the entire drive back to the department.

“Oh, so we have probable cause?” Nancy asks from where she’s still hunched over her desk.

“ _No_ ,” Steve admits. “I just _hate_ him.” He points over to Jonathan, “What the fuck are you smirking about, you asshole?”

“Nothing. You’re just so adorable when you’re angry,” Jonathan says, trying, and failing, to stop laughing at Steve’s expense.

“Keep it up, Byers. I’ll murder you too.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Nancy grumbles, “If there’s no probable cause then what did you find?”

Steve’s still glaring at Jonathan as he answers, “He _is_ a lone wolf and I gave him until next Tuesday to bring me his registration papers.”

“Awful generous of you, giving him a whole week,” Jonathan comments from behind the shield of his coffee mug.

“Shut _up_ , Jonathan,” Nancy snaps before turning her attention back to Steve, “You learn anything else?”

Billy’s bite flashes bright in Steve’s memory, “Yeah, actually. I, uh-,” Steve swallows because he’s suddenly nervous, but he doesn’t know why. “I noticed that his bite was a little unusual.”

Nancy’s head tilts inquisitively to the side, “Unusual how?”

“It wasn’t clean. It looked like a struggle.”

“Nonconsensual?” Nancy hums, pushes her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, “That is interesting.”

“It’s rare,” chimes Jonathan. “He should be dead.”

“He will be if he doesn’t bring me his fucking papers by Tuesday.” Steve mumbles, still a little irritated.

“Make a note of it in his file!” Nancy calls over to him as he sits in his chair and turns his back on them.

“Yeah, Nance. I _know_ how to do my goddamn _job_.” And like the unprofessional asshole he is, he scrawls _Nonconsensual????_ on the first paper inside William Hargrove’s folder.

\--

It’s Friday evening when Dustin sticks his curly-haired head through the doorway, “Uh, Steve?”

Steve doesn’t bother looking up from the papers on his desk, “Yeah?”

“You, uh. Um, you have a visitor?”

Steve’s heart suddenly slams like a captive against his ribcage. “Yeah?” The word is weaker this time. He hasn’t prepared himself properly to deal with who might be on the other side of that door. Plus, Nancy’s still here he doesn’t need her sitting spectator to the possible shitshow that’s about to break loose.

“A, uh,” Dustin squints down at the fluorescent orange sticky-note stuck to his palm, “A Mr. William Hargrove-“

“Hey, kid!” The voice is muffled, shouted from somewhere in the reception area, “I told you my name is _Billy_. I hear you call me William again and I’ll fucking _gut_ you.”

Dustin swallows and looks helplessly at Steve.

“Is threatening Dustin enough to give chase?” Steve asks Nancy over his shoulder.

“Steve, half of the time _you’re_ the one threatening Dustin.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “ _Fine_. Send him in.”

Billy slinks into the office in a pair of too-tight jeans and a shirt that’s halfway unbuttoned. There’s a pendant of some saint dangling in the center of his chest, but Steve isn’t religious, so he can’t exactly name which one.

The shirt, Steve notices, is collared and draped in just the right way that Billy’s bite is completely covered.

Billy slams a stack of papers down in front of Steve, braces his palms on the edge the desk and leans over him, “Here’s my registration, _Venator_.”

It’s the first time Steve _smells_ Billy, but it’s not _really_ Billy; it’s a cloying, throat-choking scent, manufactured and fake. Designed to attract attention; a lure.

Steve _hates_ it.

He scowls up at Billy, who sneers down at him. Steve shifts through the papers; they’re legit. Sealed and official; Billy’s own bloody thumbprint an ugly brown smear in the bottom-right corner.

“I’ll make copies for your file,” Steve grumbles, standing from his chair.

“You do that,” Billy answers in kind.

It’s only when Steve’s standing at the copier that he notices the way Nancy is glaring at Billy; a look full of distrust and suspicion.

It’s worse when he sees Billy staring back at her, leering and predatory, “You see something you like, sweetheart?”

Steve watches Billy’s eyes drop down to Nancy’s exposed forearm, where her own brand sits heavy on her skin, neat and clean and perfect; the way it’s _supposed_ to be.

“I see trouble,” Nancy says slowly; white-knuckled grip wrinkling the papers she’s holding.

Steve swears he can see the distinctive jut of elongating canines from where he’s standing, looks on as Billy’s tongue rolls out of his mouth, lolls to the side to graze the knife-edge of a tooth, “That’s _right_ , doll. Don’t you _forget_ it.”

Nancy’s clenching so hard Steve can see the tendons bunch beneath her skin. He snatches the copies from the outlet tray and offers the originals back to Billy. Up close, it becomes even more evident that Billy’s _posturing_.

Steve _knows_ that there are only two reasons for wolves to posture in a social setting: the first is to impress; Steve’s seen that before and it certainly doesn’t look like this.

The second and the only remaining possibility is that Billy sees Nancy as a _threat_.

And isn’t that _something._

Billy doesn’t even glance at Steve as he snatches back his registration papers; he’s not going to break eye contact.

Steve looks to Nancy instead, for once trying to be the voice of reason, “This is unnecessary.”

Nancy takes one deep breath; her fingers uncurl. She blinks at Billy and with a strained voice, says, “Have a good night, Mr. Hargrove.” She finally looks away.

Steve turns to Billy, whose canines are sharp and on full display. With Nancy backing down, Billy focuses his attention back on Steve, but the posturing doesn’t stop.

No, it only morphs into something _different._

Steve might be a hair’s breadth taller than Billy, but right now he feels like he’s standing in front of a _monster_.  He knows that’s _wrong_ ; you’re not supposed to call _Others_ by that word, but he’s never quite encountered a breed like Billy before.

“Didn’t mean to cause a _stir_.” Billy’s apology rings false, because that’s _exactly_ what he meant to do. The sterling-blue of Billy’s eyes have given way to pitch-black, nothing but pupil. Billy looks hungry, and Steve’s feeling less like a hunter, and more like a meal.

Steve’s at a loss for words, grapples for some sort of dismissal, ends up parroting Nancy’s last words, “Have a good night, Mr. Hargrove.”

Billy backs away slowly, offers one last tongue-swipe over his canines before stepping through the door and disappearing down the hallway.

Steve doesn’t breathe for a whole minute afterward.

“He’s going to be a problem,” Nancy finally says from behind him.

“Yeah, Nance. I picked up on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so. i know werewolf billy isn't an original idea, but you know, here it is anyway. this was originally supposed to be wayyyy darker, but this is what you get and i'm not apologizing. 
> 
> i should be studying for finals. i wrote this instead. i am a _master_ at managing my time.
> 
> still over on [tumblr](http://desert-dino.tumblr.com/).
> 
> title from 'new again' by taking back sunday.


	2. two.

Steve doesn’t hear about Billy again until over two weeks later.

It’s mid-afternoon on a Monday; Steve’s barely had enough coffee to keep him awake, and he _knows_ there’s something iffy about a seemingly-harmless solitary vampire that’s just up-and-disappeared two counties over, but he can’t seem to tease out the details.

The words in the file blur together in a jumbled knot of black ink, and Steve’s seriously considering a seventh cup of coffee when Dustin’s voice comes crackling over the telephone speaker.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you the only one back there?”

“You know I am, Dustin. Just tell me what it is.” Steve presses thumb and forefinger against closed eyelids and waits for the axe to fall.

“There’s an informant on the line. Sounds like the same one from a few weeks ago that brought up the issue with Mr. Hargrove.” The crunching sound coming through the speaker sounds suspiciously like Dustin chewing, and the kid knows damn well he’s not _supposed_ to be eating at the front desk, but Steve can't be bothered to care right now, so he lets Dustin snack on.

“What are they calling about now?” Steve asks, pen tapping idly against the file he’s reviewing, eyes glued to the water stain on the ceiling.

“Mr. Hargrove, again. Insists that the man is unregistered.”

“Did you tell him we have his papers?”

“Yeah, and now he wants to speak with my _manager_.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “You don’t _have_ a manager.”

“Yeah, Steve, I _know_. And I told him so but he just wants to talk to someone more important than me.”

“Jesus _Christ_. Fine, I’ll talk to him.”

“You’re an _angel_ , Steve,” Dustin waxes, words muffled by a mouth full of food as he transfers the call.

Steve phone rings once to let him know he has a call waiting and the little red light that he hates so much starts blinking incessantly, just begging him to pick up the line.

He doesn’t.

In fact, Steve lets it sit for three whole minutes before he picks up the phone.

“Steve Harrington, _Venator_.”

The man on the other end huffs, irritation bleeding over the airwaves, “Are you in charge?”

Steve grinds his molars and grits, “I’m as good as you’re going to get right now.”

Another huff, “I’m calling about that _man_ living in the cabin by Lovers' Lake.”

Just to be especially aggravating, Steve asks, “May I have the name of said man?”

“ _William Hargrove_ ,” the informant snaps. “He’s unregistered and I want him taken care of.”

“Sir, Mr. Hargrove _is_ registered. We have his papers on file.”

“They must be fake.”

“No, sir. They’re _not_. I personally called the California registration office and spoke to a lovely woman named Florence who verified his documentation.” This phone call is becoming a lot less of an inconvenience and more of a migraine.

“What if he’s feral?” the man asks, grasping at straws.

Steve actually laughs into the receiver, “ _Feral?_ I spoke with Mr. Hargrove in-person and he’s completely sane.” _Depending on what your definition of sane is_ , Steve thinks.

“Look,” the man’s voice morphs into something less desperate and more determined, “I don’t care what excuse you need. I just want him _gone_.”

That wipes the mirth straight off of Steve’s face, because having a problem with Billy for his personality is one thing, but something tells him that this person has never even _met_ Billy, which means that the problem this guy has with Hargrove is something else _entirely_ , and that absolutely rubs Steve the wrong way.

“That sounds awfully _intolerant_ , sir,” Steve says as politely as he can, which is not really that polite at all.

“Those _things_ don’t belong with civil folk.”

“Well, you don’t sound too civil yourself, buddy.” Steve picks up the sad looking stress ball at the corner of his desk and gives it a good squeeze. “Mr. Hargrove is completely compliant and I don’t think there’s anything here left to discuss.”

“I want to talk to someone else,” he suddenly demands because Steve obviously isn’t giving him the answer he wants to hear.

“No. In fact, you’re going to hang up and do some serious self-reflection because you’re an asshole.”

“I will _not_ be spoken to-“

“Fine. I’ll do it for you,” Steve snarls and slams the receiver into the cradle. The stress ball gives a pathetic wheeze as Steve clenches his fist; the noise irritates him enough that he hurls the ball at the opposite wall. His aim is slightly off; it smacks into Nancy’s monitor before landing on her keyboard with a muted _clack._

His sudden anger leeches out of him like a slow-tide and he hopes that this is the last time he’ll hear anything about William Hargrove for a good, long while.

\--

It isn’t.

\--

It’s early morning, just past 7:00am on Wednesday.

The sunlight eking through the window is pale and chilly and it makes Steve _tired_. The monotonous sounds of the still-waking department do absolutely nothing to help the perpetual droop of Steve’s eyelids.

Nancy’s clacking on her keyboard, occasionally flipping through chase notes and scribbling furiously in the paper margins. Jonathan is likely in his darkroom, which leaves Steve to pick unenthusiastically at his blueberry breakfast muffin and stare sullenly at the slow-growing pile of paperwork on his desk.

Dustin makes his first appearance of the day, face red and eyes wide as he sticks his head around the threshold, “Steve, I am _so_ sorry.”

Steve doesn’t even get to scrunch his brow in confusion before Hopper appears in the doorway looking murderous and ill-kempt and Steve's stomach promptly sloshes out of his chest cavity and freefalls to the floor. But, you know, at least he's _awake_ now. 

“Steve,” Hop says, slow and authoritative; a tone that makes Steve want to crawl in a hole. “I just had a very interesting phone call. Would you like to know what it was about?”

“If I say ‘no’ does that mean you leave and we don’t have this conversation?” Steve tries, shoulders tensing and headache imminent.

“Real cute,” Hop says in a way that is wholly unamused. “An informant was calling about a William Hargrove.”

Nancy’s typing falters and Steve is beginning to wonder if Billy’s name is the punch-line to some hilariously unfunny joke the universe keeps trying to tell.

“Okay, look-“

Hopper cuts him off, “You can’t call informants assholes, Steve.”

“Yeah, well, he deserved it,” Steve mumbles, petulant and put-off.

Hopper sighs, “In order to rectify the situation, I told him that I’d have someone investigate his concerns.”

“Hargrove is registered. We have his fucking paperwork.”

“ _Language_ ,” Hop scolds without any real heat. “And it’s not about the paperwork. He claimed Mr. Hargrove is feral.”

“Oh my _God_. Hargrove is _not_ feral; he’s just a major dickhead.”

“Regardless, you’re going out to assess the claim.”

“Why me?” Steve asks, looking pointedly over at Nancy, who’s pretending to be otherwise occupied.

But she _isn’t_ , because she chimes, “If I go out there, I’ll shoot him.”

Hopper nods like her point is somehow _valid_. Steve seethes.

Nancy speaks up again, “You going out there means we can get more information on him. We don’t know when his Change is and the next full moon is in nine days.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“ _Language!_ ”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Un- _fucking_ -believable.”

Nancy shrugs.

“Look,” Hop says, trying to be the voice of reason, “I know he’s not feral, but we’re just covering all of our bases.”

“You sound like her,” Steve accuses, eyes narrowed and pointing at Nancy, who looks unabashedly smug.

“Just do it, Steve.”

“ _Fine_.”

\--

When Hopper leaves, Steve storms out to the reception area and whacks the back of Dustin’s head, “What in the _fuck,_ Dustin? I thought we were _friends_.”

Dustin looks appropriately ashamed, “I’m _sorry_. He was up here making small talk and the phone rang and he picked it up before I could stop him.”

“What?” Steve’s incredulous, face scrunched up in overdramatic disbelief, “You’re telling me that Jim Hopper answered the phone _willingly_?”

“It’s Joyce,” Dustin suggests. “She’s like, turning him into a _person_ or something.”

“Fucking _great_.”

\--

Steve waits until exactly 3:00pm before he finally leaves to deal with Billy Hargrove.

For being mid-November, the weather is surprisingly mild; the air has a bit of a bite to it that reinforces the need for a jacket, but the sun is shining and the pines are verdant-flush; the scent laid out thick and fresh over the earth.

This time, Steve drives all the way up to the cabin, and lo and behold, like some act of divine intervention, there’s Billy, standing on the front porch likes he’s been _waiting_ for Steve.

He’s wearing a pair of those sinful jeans again, red collared shirt unbuttoned nearly to his navel with a leather jacket to ward off the early winter chill.

Steve puts the truck in park, grabs Billy’s folder, and takes a deep breath to fortify himself against the impending disaster; he climbs out of the cab and slams the door.

“Am I dreaming or is that you, Harrington?” Billy calls, elbows propped against the porch rail, cigarette dangling between his lips.

There’s something about the way Billy says it that makes Steve’s skin itch, too hot and wound tight. “Yeah, it’s me. Don’t cream your pants.”

Billy’s smile is a slow-crawl, smoke leaking from a parted mouth to hang in the open air, “What important documents can I _fetch_ for you today? My birth certificate? Social security card? How about my diploma?”

Steve sighs as he makes his way over, “Yeah. You’re hilarious.”

“Oh, no,” Billy says, full of sarcasm and disdain, “I’m just trying to be a proper _law-abiding_ citizen, Mr. Harrington.”

“Jesus Christ, I _hate_ you,” Steve mumbles under his breath as he climbs the porch steps, feet dragging over creaking wood.

Billy snorts, because of course he hears it; not that Steve actually _cares_ , because he absolutely _doesn’t_.

Steve leans against the railing, file in-hand, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, “A little cold to be showing so much skin, don’t you think?”

Billy hums as he takes a drag, like he’s considering the thought for a short moment before his eyes meet Steve’s, “Too much of a distraction for you?”

Steve’s the one to snort this time, “Takes more than a bare chest to get me going.”

Billy exhales, licks his lips, and snubs the cigarette out on the wood of the rail. He looks at Steve, wry smirk curling in the corner of his mouth, “Noted.”

They stand in silence, birds chirping, leaves rustling; Steve stares at the front door and Billy stares at Steve. He can feel the assessing weight of Billy’s eyes on him, looking for the chinks in his armor.

What Steve hopes Billy doesn’t see is that he doesn’t _have_ any armor; Steve’s lain out like an open wound, unguarded and sore.

“I’m here because we had a call concerning your sanity.” Steve shatters the moment, blunt and a little careless, fingers drumming against the folder in his hand.

“What in the fuck-“

“They said you were feral, Hargrove.”

Any of the slightly welcoming posture Billy held at Steve’s arrival slips away in an instant. “Do I look feral to you?” It’s said with a sneer, full of heat and short-leashed anger.

“I know what feral looks like, okay?” Steve says quietly, trying to calm the sudden tension. “I’m just doing my job.”

“I’m _not_ fucking feral.”

Steve knows that he went about this the wrong way; the space of the porch is suddenly lit with hard-twined static, oppressive and overwhelming. His skin is still itchy, too-thin and it makes him stupid, “Yeah, well, I don’t know. That display with Nancy a few weeks ago certainly wasn’t _sane_.”

Billy’s steps are deliberate; a short-lived pulse that thrums in the pit of Steve’s stomach. He cages Steve against the railing, “Nancy? Is that her name?” His canines shine in the sunlight, wet and threatening.

This close, with Billy’s breath lukewarm on his flesh; Steve can _smell_ him and it’s _nothing_ like before. That artificial scent is replaced with something headier, thicker, all wood-smoke and wilderness; it’s _mouthwatering_.

Steve presses two fingers to Billy’s sternum, gives a firm shove; the earring in Billy’s ear swings lazily, bouncing against blonde curls.

Billy leans back, nostrils flared, features dark. “Well then,” he says, “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” It’s so pretentiously complacent, so sickly false that Steve fights the urge to break his fucking nose.

“Yeah, actually. I need the moons for your Change.”

A sharp-slice smile; Billy says, “You want my rut too? Can give you _whatever_ you need, just say ‘please’ _real_ nice and sweet for me.”

Steve knows they’re just talking dates on a calendar, but the way Billy deliberately slides the words into innuendo has him blushing like a school girl; he can feel the way his cheeks go pink and he hates himself for it. “Just give me the dates so I can leave, Hargrove.” He flips the folder open, pen pulled from his front pocket and poised at the ready.

There’s a heavy pause where Steve looks to Billy expectantly and Billy just stares back, tongue peaking out to drag over his lips.

“Had my last Change little over two months ago,” Billy finally admits, watching as Steve jots it down. “The next should be around February, maybe March. Better put both moons down, you know, _just in_ _case._ ”

Steve glances up from the folder to give Billy a look of minute irritation. “ _Noted_ ,” he says, voice a poor imitation of Billy’s.

“Do I need to report to your _department_? You gonna kennel me? Lock me in a cage?”

“Indiana isn’t a mandatory observation state,” Steve replies dryly, feeling that Billy already knows this but is just trying to be as difficult as possible.

“Oh, good. I would hate to be such an inconvenience.”

Steve sighs, returns his pen to his shirt pocket and shuts the folder, “I think we’re done here, Hargrove.”

“Leaving so soon?” Billy pulls out a cigarette, lights it in a single, fluid motion. “I was enjoying your company _so_ much.”

“I can’t say I feel the same,” Steve mumbles. He holds out his hand because he could, at the very least, try and end this in a professional manner.

Billy looks down at the proffered hand, lips twitching in the barest hint of a smirk around his cigarette. He takes it; the handshake firm and steady, almost-friendly. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and never have to see me again, Harrington.”

“One can only fucking hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah, hi. i am thrilled that so many people are really into this, which is why i feel that i need to include a disclaimer at this point in time:  
> i don't know how long this will be. i don't really have like, a long-term plot planned out? i definitely have ideas outside of this newest chapter but as far as stringing them together in a coherent manner? yeah, we'll see. i'll maybe, _maybe_ , have another chapter out in the next two weeks or so, but i'm starting clinicals at the end of this month so after that idk how regular updates will be. the good news is that i'm going back home to georgia for almost the entirety of july, so maybe there will be more then. anyway, i kinda got off of the main point, which is to say, idk how long this will go on, i literally have never finished an actual long story in my entire life because i _suck_ , but we'll see where this takes me. in the meantime, thanks for your support and enthusiasm. i love you all, you gorgeous, wonderful human beings.
> 
> ps: _venator_ means hunter in latin. should've included that in the last chapter, totally didn't, my bad, y'all.


	3. three.

It’s late; the world drenched in black midnight outside his windows. Billy stares at the analog clock hanging above his mantel. He watches the movement of those time-telling hands, but he only hears the steady tick-tick-tick as the seconds drip by, thick-syrup, slow-moving.

There’s a pressure welling up in his ribcage, sticking to the bones, prying them apart. He’s ready to come out of his goddamn skin, hot-blooded and untethered. He won’t even lie to himself; he knows exactly why:

_Harrington_.

Their first encounter was haphazard, their second fairing worse, but neither time had Billy gotten that craving; that deep-seated need to get a little wild, a little _unfriendly_.

This time, well.

That’s _different_.

It had started just fine, amiable; slipped into something fiercer with the word _feral_ , but then Harrington had called him out on his _‘display’_ with that bitch from the department, _Nancy_ , and Billy’s composure started to slip. He had played at intimidation, slinking up to Steve and crowding him into a veritable corner, but he’d forgotten the way Steve _smelled_ , and Billy lost himself to a downward spiral.

Harrington’s scent is distinct, undeniable. He’s an unadulterated sweetness; a summer-ripe peach soaking the back of Billy’s tongue. It’s a tease, works him into a lather, makes him hungry for something more than just a _taste_. He wants to sink his teeth in, past the skin, nick the bone.

Billy had managed to reign himself in, to fake pleasant with the handshake, and watch Harrington climb into his truck and disappear down the dirt trail to the main road, but that discord built in the base of his spine, restlessness that feeds on inaction. He had a way of dealing with it in California, didn’t think he’d need to deal with it so soon after moving to Hawkins.

He tries to stave it off, distract himself with menial chores, reading, humming along to the shit-static radio signal, but the feeling doesn’t relent; it creeps, insidious, through his veins, until his heart, lungs, and head all throb with it.

It’s a losing battle; he watches the clock and it’s ticking hands for a moment longer before he grabs his car keys and heads for the door.

\--

Steve wakes to the shrill, unforgiving sound of his work phone having a conniption at 2:03am. He can’t even open his eyes, just swings his hand around until it knocks into a shape vaguely resembling a cellphone and hastily brings it to his ear.

“Harrington,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“Hey, Steve. It’s Lucas.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Steve shoves his face into his pillow, sighs loudly.

“Yeah, look. I’m real sorry, but I need you to come down to the Hideaway.” Lucas pauses; a muffled sound comes through the receiver. “They told me you were the one on-call tonight.”

Steve props himself up on his elbows, cradles his forehead in the palm of his hand, “Yeah. I’m on my way.”

\--

When Steve pulls up to the Hideaway, the front entrance is doused in revolving red-blue. A mouthful of blood stains the sidewalk and when Steve squints, he can see _at_ _least_ three teeth scattered on the pavement.

Off to the side, sheltered in shadows cast off from the police light, is Billy Hargrove.

_So much for never seeing him again,_ Steve thinks.  

Billy’s nose is busted; dried blood painted in a rusty smear across his upper lip. Steve can see, even in the darkness, the bruises nesting patiently underneath the skin of Billy’s cheekbones. Come morning they’ll be brilliant and painful, blooming violent and ugly.

Billy says nothing as Steve approaches, but they lock eyes and the moment between them hangs into eternity. Billy’s gaze is like an anchor, drowning him in deep sea; it’s unmistakably heavy and Steve almost can’t force himself to look away.

Lucas appears by Steve’s side, looking apologetic and exhausted, coffee cup in-hand, “Hey, sorry again, man. You know, he’s out of my jurisdiction.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says like he doesn’t mind only getting three hours of sleep for the fifth night in a row. “Bar fight?”

Lucas sighs, “Something like that.”

“Where’s the other guy?” Steve asks, casting a glance over to the teeth on the sidewalk.

“Had to get an ambulance.”

Steve clenches his jaw, takes in Billy’s split knuckles at the end of tanned and tapered wrists, “You need me to get him on battery?”

Lucas shakes his head, smiles a bit in disbelief, “No, according to multiple witnesses, Hargrove was only exhibiting self-defense.”

“ _Self-defense_?” Steve hisses, dropping his voice in the effort not to be overheard. “Lucas, there’s fucking _teeth_ on the ground!”

“I know, Steve, but they said Hargrove was minding his own business and the other guy just started swinging.” Lucas shrugs, like _oh well, what can you do?_

 “Was there a girl involved?” Steve asks, because with fights like these, there almost always is.

“The other guy’s girlfriend may have been inebriated and made a drunken pass at Billy that her boyfriend didn’t appreciate,” Lucas answers as he leans against his patrol car and sips his coffee.

“And you didn’t think that was important to mention?”

“Witnesses state that Billy turned her down and the boyfriend still started the fight.”

Steve takes another look at Billy, at his golden curls tied back in a bun, at his faded flannel rolled up at the elbows. Billy catches him staring, winks as he wipes the edge of a canine with the tip of his tongue.

“No,” Steve scowls, gives a resolute shake of his head. “No, he knew what he was doing and he’s played everyone here, including you, Lucas.”

“I have what I have, Steve.” He sounds resigned, like the night has already worn him down, sounds like he did when they were all still stupid kids, caught in a nightmare and trying to break loose.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Thanks for calling.”

“Had to.” Lucas takes another sip, points a finger at Billy, “That is _not_ my job.”

Steve huffs something close to a laugh, “You’d probably be better at it.”

That earns him a smile, “Damn straight.”

Steve asks, “How’re things going with your girl?”

Lucas’s smile grows bigger, he even blushes a bit, “Kicking my _ass_.”

“Someone has to, I suppose.”

Lucas pops open the door to the police car, still smiling, and nods at Steve, “Take him home. I’ll have someone drop his car off in the morning.”

“Always a pleasure, Sinclair.”

“Later, Steve.”

\--

The drive back to Billy’s cabin is dark and mostly silent. Billy stretches out in the passenger side, sticks his feet up on the dash and rolls the window down. Steve watches in his periphery as Billy lights up a cigarette, dangles his hand out the window.

“Do I look stupid?” Steve asks quietly, glancing over to Billy.

“Jesus, you sound like my father,” Billy says, dry and bored. He rolls his eyes and takes a drag, blows the smoke in Steve’s direction, antagonistic.

“You went out looking for a fight.”

The conversation idles, The Zombies come oozing over the radio, crooning, _well, no one told me about her,_ and Steve resists the urge to flip the station.

“What if I did?” Billy asks softly. “What if I wanted a fight? Would you take me in? Put strikes on my file?”

“You know I can’t. I have to have evidence for that.” Steve’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, “Since the police were the first ones to intervene, their statement is what I have to go by, and said statement says you were the victim.” Another pause; _well, let me tell you about the way she looked_ , _the way she acts_ , and Steve says, “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Billy snorts, flicks the ash off his cigarette, but says nothing in return.

Steve pulls off the main road and onto the trail leading to the cabin. The radio is hushed, murmuring, _she’s not there_ , like some kind of ill omen.

It’s quiet, something building in the silence between them, viscous and uneasy. The truck gives a muted lurch as Steve puts it in park, headlights illuminating the cabin in a swathe of sickly yellow, while branches of skeletal trees curl and hunch around it. Everything about it looks wrong, like they ripped through the veil of some alternate dimension. Steve stares, hates the picture it makes, thinks of his bat in the backseat.

Billy shifts, takes another drag before snuffing the cigarette out in the ashtray. He smiles slow, through smoke and dried blood, “You want the truth?”

“Let’s hear it then,” Steve drawls as he looks over at Billy; there’s a meanness to it, an undertone that screams _I won’t believe you_.

A haze envelopes the inside of the truck, looks inky-green from the fluorescent lights on the dash. Billy leans over the center console, speaks low, “You ever felt like you’re coming undone, Harrington?”

_More than you could ever know_ , Steve wants to say behind the cage of his gritted teeth, but he stays silent, lets Billy gain momentum.

“It’s like being anxious,” Billy explains, soft and gentle, like he’s telling a secret. “Only instead of shaking apart into separate, frazzled nerves, you just wanna make a _mess_.”

Steve knows, lets it sink in his gut like a stone, that this Billy, the one who comes skulking out in the nighttime hours, is a different man, a different _beast_ , than the Billy that Steve’s already become acquainted with. This version, occupying the seat next to Steve, grinning like Cheshire in the darkness, is _worse_.

“Sometimes,” Billy continues, “You just have to swing at something until it _breaks_.”

And it dawns on Steve then, what Billy is describing, the feeling _Others_ lose themselves to when something kicks them off-kilter, makes them dangerous, unpredictable.    

“Bloodlust,” Steve murmurs.

Billy groans, like hearing that word pass through Steve lips is the most delicious thing he’s ever heard. “I get so hungry for it, _starving_ ,” Billy pauses, breathing heavy, mouth wet and skin feverish, “It was so _easy_ : a smile when no one was looking, a wink to get her interested, to make her feel _special_. Only this time,” Billy laughs, a sound like his throat is nothing but gravel, “This time, I wanted a fight. She came over, her boyfriend got angry.” His lashes flutter long and pretty against bruised cheeks. “I let him hit and hit and hit to make it look _real_.” He runs his thumb over his busted knuckles, revels in the sting. His voice goes quiet, “And then I got what I wanted.”

“There are better ways of dealing with it,” Steve finds himself saying, like he can convince Billy to mellow out, to calm down.

“You say it like you _understand_ ,” Billy sneers as he moves back, Steve watches him dig a nail into the ridges of his knuckles, pressing until it bleeds. “You think I can, what, take a swift mid-afternoon jog? Like that’s _enough_ to make it settle? Running’s not the same unless you have something to _chase_ ,” Billy hisses. A pause, he leans into Steve’s space again, “But that _is_ something you would understand, isn’t it, _venator_?”

Steve swallows, can feel his blood swirling in his ears; a violent rush that threatens his composure. He _does_ understand, more than Billy knows, because he’s been on both sides of that thrill.

“You know what I love about it?”

Steve parts his lips, breathes through his mouth, held captive by Billy’s gaze. Goosebumps prickle fresh over his heated skin; a chill nettles deep, frosts his bones.

“The _fear_ ,” Billy rasps, hoarse and low, exposes white-sharp canines that grow from pink gums. “That scent, when it’s thick, there’s _nothing_ sweeter.” His eyes slide down, pause at Steve’s mouth, before settling on the steady pulse nestled in the side of Steve’s throat.

Billy has Steve hanging on a knife-edge, unprecedented and alarming. It’s by sheer will alone that Steve is able to pull himself back from that precipice, but it’s a very near thing that he almost goes tumbling over.

Billy Hargrove has got him in a way that’s better left six-feet-under, forgotten and rotting. Steve is determined, from this point out, to keep it buried, smothered and writhing.

Steve narrows the space between them and reaches out to wrap his hand around the nape of Billy’s neck. His thumb rubs at the over-warm skin, soothing; Billy presses into that touch, to the heat that Steve gives him.

Steve breathes, soft and saccharine, “You want something to chase?” He digs in, fists his hand in Billy’s hair and twists, snarls, “Then buy yourself a rabbit and let it loose.” He shoves Billy back across the cab of the truck; hostile and sick to his stomach over the reaction Billy inspires within him.

A crack of harsh laughter claws out of Billy throat, dies off into something more subtle. He swings open the door, slides free in a swift, deliberate movement. He turns around, gives Steve a parting look.

Billy’s eyes are clear, too bright, and Steve swears they almost glint golden when the moonlight catches them just right, “I think I’ve already found myself a rabbit.” A knowing smirk stretches easy across Billy’s face and that tongue comes out to ply at plush lips, “Have a good night, Harrington.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, y'all. here is number three, dredged up from the depths of my barely capable mind. as i said last chapter, this will probably be the last update for a little while, but hopefully we'll be back on a role by the end of june/early july. y'all are so sweet, and your support has been more than enough motivation to keep this moving. hope it lives up to the expectations :).
> 
> the song mentioned is 'she's not there' by the zombies.
> 
> as always, feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](http://desert-dino.tumblr.com/). i promise i'm vaguely normal.


	4. four.

The forest is a strange creature at night.

It breathes with a slowness that’s nearly-stagnant; Steve swears he can’t hear a thing, but he feels Dustin shaking next to him, knows Mike and Lucas are frozen with fear, stuck in place.

He’s trying to listen, but his heart rages in a frantic tempo against his breastbone, echoes loudly in his ears.

Beneath their feet, rotting leaves are slick with icy rain; every exhale becomes a cloud of hazy mist, barely illuminated in the pale light from a yawning full moon.

“Steve,” Dustin starts, voice trembling on a whimper.

“Listen to me,” Steve murmurs, eyes tracking over every tree and shadow, “When I tell you to run-”

“We’re not leaving you!”

“ _Listen to me_ ,” Steve repeats, soft-harsh and straining, gripping Dustin by the front of his jacket. “You run when I tell you. Do you understand?”

“ _Steve_ -”

“We’ll run,” Mike answers with Lucas nodding in tandem.

Steve watches with a churning stomach at the wetness gathering in Dustin’s eyes. “Hey, hey,” Steve whispers, “We’re gonna be okay.” But over his shoulder, Steve sees a slinking shape; it moves, unnatural, golden eyes unblinking in the darkness.

Steve swallows, eyes flickering to Dustin’s, “ _Run_.”

Dustin screams as he’s pulled away by Mike, but the forest smothers it, quenches it like the sound never passed Dustin’s lips.

Steve stares down the shadow, waits for it to shuffle closer, to be caught in the moonlight. On hindlegs, its front claws scrape over tree bark, gouges deep and weeping sticky-slow. Yellowed teeth hang dangerously from the bloody-black cavern of its mouth; hair sprouting in mangy patches across dirty flesh. 

Steve knows feral and it breathes like the forest.

\--

Waking up sends his teeth grinding into the soft flesh of his tongue; he’s choking on a scream, muscles locked and eyes wide. It’s a miserable, terrifying sensation.

Steve keeps waiting to get used to it.

He never does.

Breathing is a struggle, he remembers that he’s supposed to inhale through his nose, exhale through his mouth. The motion becomes cyclic: nose, mouth, nose, mouth, nose, mouth.

When he doesn’t have to beg his body to obey, he manages to shove himself upright, tugs the chain on the bedside lamp to eat away at the darkness.

The sweat chills against his skin, greases his hair at the temples; his stomach roils like an ocean, comes sloshing up his throat in a wave. He barely makes it to the bathroom sink before he vomits, nothing but bile and saliva; the nausea ebbing away like low-tide.

Steve looks back over his shoulder into his bedroom, the numbers on his clock glare an angry red even in the lamp’s gentle glow: 3:22 am.

He was only asleep for two hours.

He won’t be sleeping again tonight, tries to shake off the exhaustion as he rinses out the basin of the sink, knows it’s a futile effort as he brushes his teeth.

It’s getting worse and Steve’s not sure what it means.

\--

Dustin shoves a raspberry-filled powdered donut and a too-hot coffee into Steve’s hands when he comes into work that morning.

Steve grunts in appreciation and ignores the way Dustin peers suspiciously at him from underneath his baseball cap.

Steve takes a sip of coffee, winces as it burns his swollen tongue, and Dustin finally says, “Hey, Steve, buddy? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

“I own a mirror, Dustin. I _know_ what I look like.”

“I mean, but _do_ you?”

Steve sets the donut and cup down on the breakroom table and slides into the nearest chair, “Jesus Christ. Get lost, twerp. I can’t deal with you yet.”

Dustin grabs his own donut from the box, chocolate glaze with red-green Christmas tree sprinkles. “I’m wounded to my core, Steve,” he muffles through a mouthful of pastry, chocolate smudged on his nose and crumbs sticking to his lips.

A smile twitches at the corners of Steve’s mouth; he holds out a napkin, shakes it at Dustin, “You’re a mess, kid.”

Dustin snatches the napkin and rubs too forcefully at his face, “Pot meet kettle.”

Steve pulls apart his raspberry donut, gives a mock gasp, “Such disrespect. I raised you better than that.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Dustin exclaims, exasperated. “Why do I do anything nice for you?” He’s still wiping at his face, but he completely misses the chocolate smear on the tip of his nose. Steve doesn’t tell him.

Dustin mumbles grumpily under his breath as he gathers up his own heavily sugared coffee and a few extra napkins. He pauses in the doorway, briefly turns back to Steve, “Oh, yeah. We still on for ESO this weekend?”

Dustin’s been left high and dry, with Mike and Will at grad school and Lucas joining the police department. Their D&D nights are few and far between, usually during the Christmas season. Steve’s Dustin’s substitute, albeit probably a poor one, but ESO isn’t all that bad, and he enjoys spending time with Dustin. It’s _almost_ cathartic, especially when Steve knows he won’t be sleeping, knows he’ll need that distraction.

Steve says, “Yeah, man, but I get to pick the group dungeon.”

Dustin rolls his eyes, scoffs loud and over-indulgent, “ _Fine_.”

\--

Steve knows, logically, that his perpetual lack of sleep would eventually leach out of plain exhaustion and morph into something more tangible, like blurred edges finally settling into focus.

He’s at his desk, helping Nancy sort through some of her past chases. There’s a stack of photographs he’s filing through; a living room, a vacant alleyway, a lonely cubicle in a space filled with other lonely cubicles.

But when he flips to the next scene, a copse of pines with a flash of light illuminating rough bark and needle-green, his vision narrows. Nausea is a sudden and unwelcome guest; the world tilts, off-kilter and violent.

He’s going to be sick.

It’s a struggle to make it to the men’s room, huddled over the trash bin in the corner between the urinals and sinks. That raspberry donut isn’t as appetizing as it passes through his mouth for a second time, splashes into a pile of used paper towels.

The dry heaves are the worst, his stomach revolting even when it sits empty and sour. His hands clutch at the rim of the bin, edges burrowing into shaky palms; he’s trying to steady himself, rock back into equilibrium, but the room still spins, unrelenting.

He stares at the soiled paper towels and wants nothing more than to crawl beneath the surface of the earth; nothing can find him if he digs deep enough.

The bathroom door squeaks open, Steve hears the click of the lock.

“Breathe through it, Steve,” Nancy instructs, careful and sure, a balm to his fraying nerves.

He gapes like a dying fish, choking on air, lungs stalling.

_I can’t_ , he wants to say, _I’m falling apart._

But she already knows that words aren’t enough this time, fits herself against his back and breathes with him.

It’s a slow, laborious process to drag him out of that trench, but she takes her time; the minutes are meaningless, and Nancy is a virtue in living flesh.

Only when he stops shaking, when he can breathe without the tempo of her heart pressed to his ribs, does she turn him to face her, knot the final stitch to mend all his rips and tears.

Nancy reaches out, grazes her fingertips against the dark circles carved out beneath his tired eyes, “The nightmares are back.” The concern weaved through her voice, the worry creasing her features, it makes Steve miss something that isn’t his anymore.

He never stopped loving Nancy.

Now, he just loves her in a different way.

He tries to shrug it off, parts his lips to say something lame like, _I’ll get over it_ or _it’ll go away, it always does_ , but Nancy stops him before his mouth even forms the words.

“How long?”

Steve thinks about lying, thinks about making it seem trivial, like an inconvenience, but it’s never that simple. The nightmares, those fear-thick memories trail after him like a phantom, haunting a restless mind.

He tries to answer her, but his throat seems to swell shut; his eyes sting with salt, make Nancy look murky and distant.

She stands there with him, gentle and quiet, helps him coax out the words he’s been wanting to scream since he was a stupid teenager, since he was too young to stare into the gaping maw of a monster and feel death snapping at his heels like a demon.

“I’m losing my mind, Nance.” He chokes on it, can barely look at her as his chest caves in, smothers heart and lungs in a collapse of ill-fitting muscles. “It’s supposed to be easy by now, supposed to be _nothing_.”

Nancy holds his trembling hands between her own, soothes him like a saint, like a goodnight kiss, murmurs, “It’s never that easy, Steve. These things take time.”

“I’m so _tired_.” He wants to curl into her space, let her heat warm him, quiet the unrest that has settled in his bones and made a home out of his misery. “Ten years. It’s been ten years and I still feel like I’m being chased.”

“What you saw, what you experienced-”

“But you and Jonathan-”

“There’s no comparison, Steve,” she says, forceful, loving. She rubs her thumbs over his knuckles, “Don’t do that to yourself.”

He swallows, feels overwhelmed, “Nancy-”

“You need to rest, you need to _sleep_.”

“I don’t know _how_ , Nance.”

She offers him a sad smile, “I’m sending you home.”

When he starts to argue, Nancy won’t hear it, “You need to feel safe, Steve. What makes you feel safe?”

Steve’s felt a lot of things in the past decade, but he can’t remember the last time he wasn’t scared of what could be hiding just out of view, of what monsters lurked in the recesses of his sleepless mind.

But Nancy’s looking at him expectantly; she wants an answer, wants him to honestly _think_ about his feelings.

He says the first thing his reckless thoughts can stumble upon, “You.”

It’s sincere, it’s the _truth_. Nancy Wheeler is one of the strongest people he knows, has unearthed a burial ground worth of secrets and bared them proudly to the world, has pieced together harder puzzles than Steve Harrington and his darkest fears.

Nancy offers him a genuine smile this time, “Who else? What else?”

“Hopper, Joyce. Dustin’s inane ramblings about amphibians, hot chocolate, sunny days, hot showers, the tv being on-” He trails off, bites his lip, chews his cheek, finally mumbles, “My baseball bat.”

She leans up, kisses his cheek, “Go home, Steve. Take a shower, drink some hot chocolate, turn all the lights on, leave the tv playing in the background, and _sleep_.”

“What if I need you too?”

“Then I’ll come.”

\--

Steve goes home, slinks into his apartment like a man layered in defeat.

He took a shower that morning, but takes another, scalds his skin under too-hot water. He lets himself enjoy it, even through the sting of soap in his eyes, he hums some stupid show jingle, thinks about cleaning his kitchen even though he knows he’s not going to.

It’s nice.

Almost normal.

\--

He settles on Animal Planet, some show where the man has a soft, calm voice, talks about fish that Steve has never heard of.

He’s on his second mug of hot chocolate, curled on the couch underneath the blanket Dustin’s mom knitted him as a high school graduation present.

All the lights are on.

His bat rests against the side table, nails sharp and waiting.

The man on the tv talks about arapaima, about catfish and piranhas. Steve’s eyelids grow heavy, filled with sand. He thinks Dustin might like this show, and fish are sort of like amphibians-

\--

_What makes you feel safe?_

\--

It’s too warm, smells like summer. Lightning bugs flicker in and out of existence; cicadas hiss somewhere unseen, out in the trees.

The sunset sits low on the horizon, peachy smears fading into crimson; a kaleidoscope of melting colors. Picturesque.

Wrong.

A fire scorches beside him, the scent of woodsmoke heavy, thick in his lungs. His skin prickles, hairs standing on end, and there’s a whisper from the fear that sits like a deadweight beneath his ribs: _run_.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, hears the sounds of the forest, feels the heat of the fire, waits for the breath of a monster.

Waits.

Waits.

His eyes slip open.

Billy Hargrove looks back at him, curious, a strange kind of hungry.

Steve’s heart skips, drops like an anchor to the bottom of the sea.

_Run_.

But Steve’s rooted, feet planted, his hands itch for a familiar wooden handle, curl into fists instead.

Billy keeps staring, shirt unbuttoned, curls loose; he grins slow, all teeth and tongue. The sunset casts him in an unholy, bloody halo; his eyes glow in the firelight, glimmer with something that makes Steve’s stomach dip dangerously, makes his palms clammy.

This is fear, but the anticipation is unmistakable.

“Are you scared?” It’s not a question, but a _taunt_ , licking out of Billy’s mouth to drip in the humid air.

“Not of you,” Steve answers, defensive, cool.

“Of what then?”

“The woods.” It’s automatic, Steve doesn’t even have to _think_.

Billy laughs, throaty and deep. He takes a step closer, trails eyes, all pupil, over the length of Steve’s body. He’s searching for something; a weakness, a bruise, cut, some way to slither in and root himself deep.

“The woods?” Billy parrots back, draws closer, asks, “Or what’s hiding in them?”

Steve eyes the tree line, the shadows twisting just beyond dense branches, says, “There are monsters.”

He barely feels Billy circle him, predatory. The cicadas’ song swells into a shriek as the sun dips out of view, sky nothing but dark-rust. Steve sweats from the heat of the fire, the smell of it heavier now, acrid; he could bathe for days and never scrub it from his skin.

Billy reaches out, catches Steve by the chin, forces brown to meet blue, “There are no monsters here, sweetheart.” But Billy’s lupine grin grows wide, like he could unhinge his jaw and swallow Steve whole.

_My, what big teeth you have_.

Steve latches onto Billy’s wrist, grip tight, sure to bruise. He can’t breathe, lips parted, panting and Billy leans in, noses at the sweat slicking Steve’s throat, whispers heady and sweet, “Only me.”

“Liar,” Steve murmurs, because Billy and Steve might be alone, but there’s something wicked masquerading as a man, and the best predators know how to trick their prey.

Billy's laugh is low and inviting; canines pressing gentle against tender flesh before scraping upward, “You say you’re not scared, but I _know_ fear. So, tell me,” a pause, lips ghosting over the crest of Steve’s ear, “Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that last line is soooo cliche, y'all, and i don't even _care_. i _needed_ it to happen. 
> 
> special, super-de-duper shoutout to eternalgoldfish for lending me her eyeballs and giving this chapter a look before i let it loose. 
> 
> thank you guys for your patience while i trudged through clinicals and put this on the backburner. i'm officially free to do absolutely nothing for the next month, so hopefully you'll see more things from me. like, no promises, but i'm gonna try to get more things done. 
> 
> come see me on [tumblr](http://desert-dino.tumblr.com/), where i regularly make a mess of myself because i'm an actual goddamn disaster.


	5. five.

The winter chill has fully settled in Hawkins a week outside of Christmas.

Blinking Christmas lights cascade down severed evergreens, wind around porch-rails, drip off balconies. Fresh snow makes everything look so _wholesome_ and all that swingy-jazz about _merry-and-bright_ comes knocking around Billy’s skull; it plays on repeat, relentless. It’s _annoying_. Billy _hates_ it.

It’s dipping just below freezing, just cold enough to sting in his fingertips. He could chainsmoke, but he’s running out of cigarettes, doesn’t want to go out and buy more until tomorrow, so he plays listlessly with his lighter.

One, two, three, _clink._

Four, five, six, _clunk._

Patience has always been an unfamiliar concept to Billy. His father claimed it was because Billy was spoiled, a brat, that he lacked self-control like a respectable human being.

It had only got worse since his bite.

One, two, three, _clink_.

He’s getting tired of waiting; she’s fifteen minutes late.

Neil would’ve knocked a tooth loose for this kinda shit, but.

Max isn’t Billy, and Billy isn’t Neil.

Four, five, six, _clunk_.

The wood of the porch groans as he rocks back in the chair, watches the red-blue-green lights of the nearest neighbor blink faintly through layers of bare branches.

He stares, thinks about the dreams of Steve Harrington with fear-blown eyes letting Billy drag too-sharp teeth over a sweat-slick throat.

Waking up finds him hard every time, has wrapped a guilty hand around his aching cock and jerked himself to the image of Steve giving in. Imagined what Harrington would sound like, breathless and begging.

It’s not that he _likes_ Steve, more that he needs to know what Steve’s skin feels like pressed against his own, struggling and desperate.

It’s eating Billy alive.

He can’t stop thinking about it.

_Clink._

There’s the sound of a car coming up the trail, twenty minutes late. Irritation on-high, Billy sinks his teeth into his lower lip, tastes copper. Licks it away with a flippant swipe of his tongue. Finds subtle ways to nick his own skin since the bumps and bruises of the barfight have long healed.

_Clunk._

The police car rolls to a stop, headlights switching off as Max slides out of the cab, pulling her hair out of the regulation bun sitting at her nape.

“Look who’s right on time,” Billy snaps, standing up from the rocking chair.

“I _told_ you I might run late,” she sneers back, climbing the porch steps, bag of take-out clutched in one hand. “My job is kind of unpredictable, _William.”_

Billy offers her a nasty smile. “Yes, _Maxine_ , your job is _so_ unpredictable. Between giving out parking tickets and eating jelly donuts, I can hardly guess what comes _next_.”

Max rolls her eyes, shoves open the front door, and heads for the secondhand kitchen table. She drops the bag of food in a vacant seat, pulls off her coat, runs her fingers through her hair. “I don’t need your fucking nonsense tonight, asshole. I had to break up a fist fight between two stupid high school kids, Lucas won the bet we had, and I’m on my fucking period-”

To be fair, Billy could smell it on her when she was coming up the steps, but he doesn’t really want to _hear_ about it. “Hard pass, shitbird. Try again.” He’s rummaging around in the fridge, picks out a beer for himself. “Do you want ginger-ale again or do you actually want a big-girl drink this time?”

The rustling of the take-out bag is louder than it needs to be, tells him she’s ignoring what he has to say. He sighs, resists the urge to let his eyeballs meet the pinkened grooves of his brain, rephrases, “Max, do you want a beer?”

She stops fighting with a fork and its plastic wrapper, smiles big and overenthusiastic. “A beer would be _wonderful_ , Billy. Thank you.”

He snags another bottle and heads for the table.

The food’s spread out over the surface; his sweet-and-sour pork and spring rolls pushed to the right side. Max has already got a mouthful of vegetable fried rice bulging out of one cheek as she tries to talk. “Is noon okay? On Christmas?”

Billy shrugs, pokes at a chunk of pork, decides to go for a spring roll instead. “Do whatever. You’re accommodating me.”

“You can still join us, you know,” she suggests. There’s a hopeful note in her voice, like his heart might grow three sizes and he’ll somehow become a people-person. A Christmas miracle. “Joyce could make it work and no one else will even m-”

“How’s Susan?”

Max deflates visibly, pushes a wad of cabbage around her container, “Good. She’s spending the holiday with Jason,” she scrunches her nose up like she’s thinking, “Jeff? I can’t ever remember his name.”

_She’s not being beaten to a bloody pulp_ , is what Max means.

They don’t talk about Neil anymore. Not after they left him in a shallow grave out in an undeveloped part of the California desert, with nothing but a Joshua tree to act as a headstone. Not that his father even deserved that much.

He swallows mechanically, the memory churning his stomach in an unpleasant way.

Max saves him. “That venator still giving you trouble?”

“He’s just doing his job.” It’s involuntary, Billy doesn’t mean to even s _ay_ it.

Max takes notice, forkful of food hovering in mid-air. Her eyes narrow, accusatory. “Wait,” she starts, traces of a fiendish smirk toying at the corners of her mouth. “Do you _like_ him?”

“ _Do you like him_?” Billy mimics, voice falsetto-high and obnoxious. “Jesus _fuck_ , Maxine. What am I, a fourteen-year-old girl?”

A grin splits her face, wicked, an exact mirror of his own. “You _do_ like him.” Food forgotten, she leans over the table. “What, does he like, have his own s _cent_?” Max says it like it’s funny, nothing but a good laugh, but Billy’s heart slides to a halt.

“Yeah, Max. He fucking _does_.”

All the mirth melts off his sister’s face. “Holy _shit._ ”

The room goes silent, and they stare at their now-cold Chinese food.

Billy knew what it meant when he opened the door that first time and smelled an overripe orchard beneath the spice of Harrington’s deodorant and the muted scent of bargain-brand laundry detergent. It had made Billy’s gut twist, uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

It was nature’s way of telling him that Harrington was a match, that they were _compatible_ : the werewolf and the venator.

A cosmic fucking _joke_.

“Can he smell you?” Max asks, thumbing at the condensation on her beer bottle.

“Dunno.”

And that would seal the deal, Harrington being able to scent Billy. Would let Billy know that it wasn’t just a colossal fuck-up, an accidental biological foible that he could just skim over with a _‘better luck next time, Billy!’_

“Ask him,” she says bluntly, like that conversation wouldn’t be awkward as hell, like Billy could just stroll into the Department of Venators and ask Steve what Billy smells like. That’s not normal; that’s not _okay_. Worse, what if Steve actually gives him an answer?

“Yeah, sure. I’ll do that.” Caustic, sarcastic. Billy shuts the flimsy Styrofoam lid of his container, swallows down more than half of his beer. He’s not going to mention the dreams, that would only rile his sister up even more. Would be stuck watching as concern and interest pitched her lips into a frown. She’d be coming over every day for the foreseeable future if Billy told her anything else. He loves Max, but he can only stand her in calculated intervals; anymore than once a week and he’s gonna be burying another body.

Max spends the next half-hour telling Billy about Sinclair, about Sinclair’s friends; Billy spends the time nodding appropriately, feigning indifference while silently trying to absorb every stupid detail that spills out of her mouth. Because he’s a good big brother. Because he c _ares_.

She leaves around nine, shrugging on her coat and chugging the rest of her beer. “Noon, next Tuesday!” she calls as she reaches her car. “Put one of those little fake trees up, we need to have something to put the presents under!”

Billy hates those trees, thinks about how ugly it’s gonna make his living room look, and makes a mental note to pick one up when he goes to get cigarettes in the morning.

\--

He doesn’t sleep. Decides that exhaustion is preferable than seeing Steve Harrington play Bambi one more fucking time.

He wastes the night scrunched up on his loveseat, flipping through books he’s already read, trying not to watch the clock count down to the morning hours.

Somewhere around two a.m., he wanders outside, smokes the rest of his cigarettes, scatters ash across his porch deck. It only kills about forty minutes; Billy almost can’t feel his hands by the time he goes back inside.

He cleans his kitchen at four, starts a miniscule load of laundry at five; he doesn’t really remember what happens around six, but at seven-thirty he makes a shopping list: _cigs, xmas tree, frozen dinners, dishwasher detergent._

There’s a thought about getting some air freshener, because he didn’t notice how his room smelled until he went to get his dirty clothes earlier that morning. It stinks; Billy swears it’s soaking the furniture.

_Peaches_.

He’d stood at the mouth of his closet, holding a pair of wrinkled boxers, could’ve sworn Harrington had been in the room with him, the scent was so strong.

Sweet and sticky, with summer rain and freshly-cut grass hanging as base notes.

Billy doesn’t really understand what the fuck is going on, but he knows that Steve Harrington is becoming a big problem for him.

\--

The grocery store is eerily quiet.

Christmas music plays over the speakers. Lights are strung like cobwebs, gaudy, an eyesore. The entire store stinks of too much peppermint, with some warm cider mixed in. It’s gross, and suddenly, the idea of covering up Steve’s smell with a pseudo-scent makes Billy sick to his stomach. He abandons his shopping list completely, currently stands in the back of a far aisle, trying to decide if he wants his three-foot faux tree with or without lights, and if he wants lights, should they be colored or white? LED or classic? And now that he’s looking, they have trees in white with gold glitter, pink with matching bows, purple with fake snow glued to the needles.

Jesus _Christ._

Billy _hates_ Christmas, but.

He’s doing this for Max, to make her happy, to make up for being such a shithole when they were kids. He’s _trying_.

Billy’s about to pick a plain green tree when the bell dings at the front of the store, signaling that he’s no longer the only customer.

No longer the only wolf, either.

Fingers tighten over the cardboard box of the tree, knuckles white, joints stiff. It’s a man, younger than Billy, smells weak and easy. _Runt._

Someone shuffles around in the aisle behind him, picking items up only to place them back down on the shelf, pretending to be looking for something specific. Eventually, they turn into Billy’s aisle, hover awkward and nervous near the cluster of pink trees. Billy looks, if only just to know what the competition’s like.

He’s taller than Billy, nothing but knees and elbows, overgrown and bony. Billy watches his face pull up in a sheepish smile; he fucking _waves_.

“Can I _help_ you?” And didn’t anyone ever teach this kid manners? Billy would’ve gotten his throat ripped out if he pulled this kinda shit back in California.

“Hi, I’m Will,” the kid greets, scooting closer to Billy and his tree box. “I just, there’s never been a new wolf before? I could smell you out in the parking lot and I just wante-”

Billy cuts him off. _Will_ , because _of course_ they would have the same fucking name, is now standing a foot away. _Way_ too fucking close. And as long as they’re ignoring social conventions, Billy snaps out his right hand, hooks two fingers in the collar of the kid’s long-sleeved shirt. He pulls it wide, both sides of the neck, looking for scars. “Where’s your fucking bite, runt?”

Will doesn’t even look angry at the invasion, just steps back, hikes the hem of his shirt up ‘til it’s at level with his shoulders.

It’s a sight that _almost_ makes Billy flinch.

The left side of Will’s ribcage is nothing but puckered skin and ill-healed bone; little dips and valleys where the ribs didn’t quite meet up right. It’s the worst bite Billy’s ever seen in his life, would have nearly torn this kid in two.

“Yours was feral,” Billy says, quiet, dumbstruck. His own bite burns in sympathy beneath his thermal. He can’t even imagine.

Will just shrugs, shoulders hitting his ears, says, “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Then softer, “There were others that weren’t so lucky.”

Billy stands there, tree box held upright by his left hand. “Didn’t know there were other wolves in Hawkins. Register said it was free territory.”

Will’s sneakers squeak against dirty linoleum as he shuffles, shoving his hands in jean pockets. “Oh, yeah. We’re only here for the holidays.”

Plural, definitively implying more than one, and Billy echoes it, “ _We’re_?”

A smile stretches over Will’s rosy cheeks, “Oh, Jane too. We’re both in grad school, up in Chicago. You can meet her if you want.”

He doesn’t know why this kid is so friendly, so open, or how he’s even _alive._ Billy drums his fingers against cardboard, tries his hardest not to be a dick. “Look, this has been a nice little chat, honest, but I’ve gotta go.” He juts the thumb of his free hand toward the check-out counter.

“Oh, yeah, no problem.” Will gives another wave. “It was nice meeting you-,” he fumbles a little, realizing he doesn’t know Billy’s name.

“It’s Billy,” he offers a little reluctantly, tries for a smile, but knows it looks more like a grimace.

Will doesn’t seem to mind, wears his own grin. “Nice you meet you, Billy.” He slinks off to the front of the store, entry bell chiming with a faint _ding_ as he leaves.

Max would be proud of Billy, or at least dead-arm him, blab obnoxiously about what a social butterfly he’s becoming. Thank Christ she’s not here.

He hauls up his tree box, snags a pack of classic white lights on his way up to the register, asks for a carton of cigarettes, and heads home.

\--

Billy hopes the rest of his week goes just as smoothly.

\--

It doesn’t.

\--

It’s Friday afternoon and Steve’s the last one in the department, everyone else has gone home for the long weekend, readying for Christmas. He’s finishing up some files for Jonathan and Nancy, leaving the folders in stacks on their respective desks.

He cleans up the remnants of his lunch, rinses out his mug of tepid coffee, makes sure the phone lines are rolled over, offices locked, and back lights turned off.

He pulls his coat from the rack up by reception, thinks about going to bed early. The past week has left him feeling unrested; he can’t seem to find sleep easy, spends hours lying in bed staring at the popcorn ceiling before he finally drifts off.

The nightmares are gone, though, seemingly replaced by a summer field and sunset, a phantom Billy Hargrove breathing hot and steady down the back of his neck. Those dreams are worse in some ways. Wakes up with the scent of burning pine clinging thick to the base of his tongue, achy all over.

_Needy_ , his mind supplies, unhelpful and _absolutely wrong_.

Steve would to call it a tease, but he knows what that would imply. Knows that it’s bad enough he slinks off to the shower almost every morning, standing in cold spray until his fingers go numb and pruny, until he’s not embarrassingly hard over what could barely even be considered a wet dream.

He winces, _not a wet dream_ , slides into his coat, makes sure he has his keys, and switches off the last light.

\--   

It’s not late when he locks the front doors, just after five in the afternoon, but the world has already started sliding into darkness. Streetlamps glow over the near-empty parking lot, orange-yellow, muted against the snow. The silence is a heavy blanket, settling over the town; a seasonal quiet that only winter can sustain.

It’s not snowing now, but the chill has Steve tucking his hands into his coat pockets. He stands under the building’s overhang, pausing to stare out at the stillness, almost appreciative.

But it doesn’t last.

The moment is ruined with a soft exhale and the harsh smell of a fresh-lit cigarette. It’s foreboding, familiar, and Steve wonders if he’s unknowingly summoning Billy into existence; he absently thinks of tanned skin and sharp-white teeth and the universe conveniently places Billy within arm’s reach.

Something curls in the pit of Steve’s stomach, a shifty mix of anticipation and dread. Steve feels like he’s in one of those predictable scary movies. _Don’t look around the corner._ Knowing that he’s going to do just that.

Steve peeks around the edge of the building, sees a figure nestled against cold brick. Sparse streetlight shows golden curls piled haphazardly at the crown of a head. Plaid shirt covered by a jean jacket.

He’s cautious, boots smushing wetly against old snow as he approaches. “Hargrove?” Steve asks, slow, like maybe it won’t be who he thinks it is, careful of being wrong.

He doesn’t want to be wrong.

But it would be worse to be right.

“Shitty weather we’re having,” Billy says with a spill of smoke, too casual. His head turns to where Steve’s stopped more than a few feet away, lips twisting wryly.

The busted nose and bruised cheeks have healed, and Billy’s forever-golden skin looks too good to be true; _Billy_ looks too good to be true, until Steve catches the purple hollows resting beneath Billy’s eyes, knows exhaustion when he sees it. Billy isn’t sleeping. “It’s winter,” Steve answers. “The whole season is shitty.”

Billy hums his disinterest, takes another drag, watches Steve. A car passes down the street, wheels crunching over salted asphalt. Billy flicks the ash off his cigarette, tongue running over his lower lip, leaving it shiny with spit.

Steve pretends not to stare. “What are you doing here, Billy?”

Billy licks at his teeth, blows smoke to the snow. “Been having weird dreams,” he rasps, breaking the silence, heavy with intent. “And see, that’s real strange, considering I don’t dream, _ever_.”

The atmosphere shifts as Steve’s heart skips a beat; he forgets to breathe, stares at Billy with a look of slack-jawed disbelief while Billy picks at the fraying threads of Steve’s composure, unravelling him one string at a time. He says, nonchalant, careless, “My bedroom smells like peaches and summertime.”

Fear-frost comes creaking through Steve’s veins; he feels frozen, numb. “I don’t know what the fuck you mean,” he spits, more than a little mean, defensive.

Billy shifts against the brick wall, leans forward, lazy, to grab a handful of Steve’s coat, yanks at the lapel. “Do you know how goddamn sweet you smell?” Another tug, sharper, with less restraint; Steve’s boots scuff against the pavement. “Peaches, and you’re _ripe_ , Harrington. Been dripping spit to get a mouthful of you.” Canines sharpen, just a bit, just enough to _notice_. “You can’t get a scent like that from a bottle; it’s too _fresh_.” Billy laughs, low and rough and wrong. Weak. “I was fine ‘til you showed up on my doorstep reeking like a bitch in heat, Jesus Christ.” He shoves Steve back, takes a drag that Steve can feel in his own lungs.

Those words twist and knot together, bind up the grey matter living in Steve’s head; they snuggle thick and weighty beneath his skull.

Steve feels nauseous.

He feels _hungry._

Billy’s down to the filter, smiles mean through too much smoke; he flicks the stub down to the concrete, lets it burn. His voice is soft, despite the sharp suggestion of teeth, “Every time I shut my eyes, I hear you cry wolf, and I come running.”

Steve finally finds his voice, speaks through a throat that feels raw, “They’re just dreams, Hargrove.”

“Are they?” Billy asks, like he’s backed Steve into a corner, can pull the truth out of him if he pushes hard enough. “‘Cause you look like you know what I’m talking about.”

Steve swallows, blood hot, scalding his veins; his mouth is dry. “We aren’t sharing dreams, Billy.” Instantly, Steve knows he’s fucked up, watches as Billy’s smile turns manic, toothy-hyena; a creature in human skin.

Billy pushes away from the brick wall, steps further into Steve’s space. “When you close your eyes, tell me what you see.”

It just, tumbles out into the frigid air, like his soul wants Billy Hargrove to know all his deepest, darkest secrets. Steve can’t stop it. “Summer. A forest, a fire; you’re always taunting me. Never stop touching me. I _hate_ it,” Steve says, but what he means is, _I’ve never slept better_.

But Billy knows a lie when he hears one, can smell it through Steve’s skin. He moves in close, shifts slow, suddenly serious, catches Steve’s shaky exhale with flared, desperate nostrils. Pupils black-blown, he takes his time, nudges his nose along the cold-ruddy swell of Steve’s cheek.

Steve palms itch inside his pockets, wants to see if Billy’s curls are a soft as they look, grinds his molars to resist the urge. His head lilts to the side; that achy-need turns his joints to jelly, doesn’t know if his knees will hold him. There’s nothing but warmth, like Billy’s the sun and Steve’s locked in eternal orbit, knows only the heat Billy provides in the vast vacuum of the winter chill.

He feels Billy’s lips part against the sensitive flesh of his jaw, hears him murmur, heavy and thick like molasses, too sweet and he wants a taste, “What do I smell like to you, sweetheart?”

“Woodsmoke,” Steve mumbles, quiet and miserable. “Pine trees.” It’s a knife slice; Steve cutting himself open to let his guts spill out on wet, dirty pavement, finally giving space for Billy to climb inside, find a home for his wandering roots.

Only Billy _doesn’t_.

His hands are gone, he’s pulling _away_.

“This won’t play out, Stevie,” Billy says, matter-of-fact, critical. There’s another cigarette between his lips, lips that should be otherwise occupied. “You know better than to feed strays.”

A trick; Billy’s hooked him and left Steve to hang.

“That’s shit,” Steve bites, angry. “That’s a shit thing to do, Billy.”

_Click_.

Flame eats up the darkness, burns cherry-red at the end of Billy’s cigarette. He’s looking away from Steve now, staring out at the parking lot, shrugs. “We can’t always get what we want, Steve.” Billy’s voice stilts a little as he says it, like it’s supposed to be callous, uncaring. Ends up sounding more like an apology.

_Clunk_.

It’s not enough.

Steve shoves forward, knocks Billy back, hitting brick, cigarette falling, jostled loose. He snarls his fingers in the hair at Billy’s nape, tugging. Slots their mouths together, hot and heedless, tongue carving through Billy’s lips, feels soft-palate, knocks against teeth. Steve’s careless, cuts his tongue against a wayward canine, jerks away at the bloody-sting.

But Billy follows, spurred on by the taste of Steve’s blood, lupine, laps at the wound, selfish.

Steve hand slides up, wraps tight around Billy’s throat, squeezes mean as he separates their lips. “This is the last time I feed you,” he whispers, brutal, before pushing Billy away. The hook feels better when it’s caught in someone else.

His blood tastes bitter in his mouth, swallows it down, reluctant, churns violent in his stomach. He fishes his keys from his pockets, the noise loud and intrusive, final. Billy stares back at him with barely concealed fury; the sheep’s clothing pulled back, all predator. Steve twists the knife, death blow. “Get lost, _stray._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special big, lovely thanks to eternalgoldfish for looking over this for me. she's an actual angel. god bless her. 
> 
> also, like, the line "when you close your eyes, tell me what you see" is 100% from 'can't deny my love' by brandon flowers and it will completely change your whole life, so. give that a good listen, if you want. 
> 
> a lot of the vibe in this chapter can be contributed to 'the chills' by peter bjorn and john, which btw, special shoutout to thecopperkid for throwing that one at me. it's legit. 
> 
> also sorry? like it took so long? july was The Worst. and then like, august has been a pile of shit too, but like, its here! finally!!!! please take it off my hands, it's killed me. 
> 
> let me know what you think??? and i'm still over on [tumblr](http://desert-dino.tumblr.com/), come scream at me. i'm all ears.


	6. six.

Christmas passes, as does New Year's. It’s well into January when Steve hears anything about Billy.

It comes in the form of a formal letter; proof of employment, dating all the way back to early November. Part-time mechanic, with nothing but glowing praise for what an exemplary worker Billy is. And it’s not like Steve thought Billy was just some jobless hermit, but he seemed readily available anytime Steve had to go out to the cabin.

He only wonders why this is being addressed now. Almost like Billy didn’t want Steve to _forget_ about him.

All the same, Steve calls to make sure it’s legitimate. The owner only offers more praise; _always punctual_ and _the customers love him._

Steve adds the documents to Billy’s file, refuses to think about kicking a stray.

\--

When it rains, it pours.

\--

Less than a week after Billy’s proof of employment papers come, Steve’s actively trying to drown himself in burnt coffee at eight-thirty in the morning. He hasn’t been sleeping, the old nightmares birthing new, horrible dreams that leave Steve empty and exhausted, like he never slept at all.

Billy never reappears in that summer clearing; Steve spends those dreams staring into a pair of golden eyes at the edge of the treeline. They’re not Billy’s and Steve becomes increasingly convinced that they don’t belong to any _Other_ , but something more archaic. Base and primal.

So, he doesn’t sleep.

Eventually he’ll crash, but the coffee is keeping that need at bay, though it’s not enough to drown out the noise coming from up front, voices barely muffled by the distance of the hallway.

Dustin is talking to someone, snarky and borderline rude. “No, _officer_ , you have to take a seat in the reception area, and _I’ll_ go get him.”

“No, I don’t think so, idiot,” a woman responds, haughty.

“You can’t just call people that, Max!” Dustin exclaims. “And besides, you wasted a trip over here, because I just remembered that Steve is currently unavailable.”

Steve rubs at his eyeballs, wishes he could pluck them straight from his orbital cavities, let his brain ooze out from the empty sockets. He can see the way Jonathan’s already grinning like a gremlin from across the room.

“You know you're going to have to intervene,” Nancy says dryly, not even looking up from her paperwork.

“I have a feeling I won’t even need to get up,” Steve replies, looks for his wilted stress ball as the ruckus continues out at Dustin’s desk. He sighs, exhausted. “They’ll come to me.”

Steve and Max have only met a handful of times since Max began dating Sinclair. They don’t _not_ get along, but she’s adept in picking at Steve’s loose strings. He’s wondered on more than one occasion how a guy like Sinclair would even end up with a chick like her.

“I s _aid_ he’s busy, Max!” Dustin shouts, too loud.

“You’re a filthy liar, Henderson.”

“Oh, so now I’m an idiot _and_ a liar? I’m sure I’ll be even more cooperative-” There’s rustling, followed by Dustin yelling, “Ow! Ow, Max! Jesus _Christ_! Police brutality!”

Measured footsteps scratch against the carpet shortly after, a second pair rushing behind the first. “He’s fucking busy!” Dustin snaps again.

Max walks through the doorway in full uniform, looking very pissed off, lips curled into a snarl that seems frustratingly familiar. Dustin slides in after her, breathless. “Steve, I’m so sorry. She’s such a _bully-_ ”

“Steve, you’re the _Venator_ assigned to William Hargrove, are you not?”

“It’s _Billy_ ,” Dustin and Steve correct simultaneously.

She smiles, scary, like she already _knew_ that. “I’m _concerned_ , Steve.”

He finds the sad stress ball hiding in the first drawer of his desk, valiantly trying to hide behind boxes of unused paperclips and staples. The wheeze that emits from the ball as he gives the first squeeze is exactly how Steve feels. Jonathan is still smirking at him.

“Yeah? About what?” Steve says, monotone.

“I’ve gotten several complaints from him that he feels threatened. And, of course, you know that as a police officer, I’m _limited_ in the assistance that I can offer-”

“That’s bullshit!” Dustin asserts. “Hargrove can’t come to you for shit; that’s a conflict of interest-”

And that gets Steve’s attention. “Conflict of interest, _how_?”

It goes completely silent; even Nancy halts her steady staccato of typing.

Dustin gives him a look like Steve just puked all over himself. Jonathan laughs, “Steve, Max is Hargrove’s step-sister.”

The squeal of the stress ball is the only audible sound; he feels like his veins are going to pop, one by one. Everyone stares, waiting for him to react.

“Of-fucking- _course_ she is,” Steve mutters, digs a knuckle into his temple.

“How did you not _know_?” Dustin asks. “I swear I’ve fucking mentioned it, like, a lot.” He frowns at Steve, petulant. “It’s like you don’t even listen to me when I talk!”

“Wow, Steve,” Jonathan says, just to be irritating. Steve chucks the stress ball at his head; it slams into Jonathan’s shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. Small victories.

“Okay, fine.” Steve sits forward, snatches up some paper and a pen. “Tell me all about how _threatened_ Mr. Hargrove feels, Mayfield.”

Max moves closer to him; she’s not smirking, but Steve can hear it hiding in her voice. “Death threats, drawn on picket signs and left outside his residence.”

Steve scribbles it down, asks, “And when were these threats made?”

She shrugs. “What matters is that it happened, more than once. Not to mention the bear-traps-”

“Bear-traps?” Steve repeats, suspicious. “I’m sorry, but if he genuinely felt unsafe, why wouldn’t he come to me?”

“And when exactly was the last time you saw him, Steve?” Max counters, slightly annoyed. “When was the last time you checked in with him?”

“Are you insinuating that he’s not doing his job?” Dustin interjects.

Max rolls her eyes, looks over her shoulder to sneer, “That is e _xactly_ what I’m implying, _idiot_.” She focuses her attention back on Steve. “ _Others_ are under the protection of _Venators_ , so why don’t you do what you’re _supposed_ to do, and go check on him?”

It’s a challenge, the way Steve and Max are staring each other down; neither of them backing off.

“Steve,” Nancy says from across the room, but Steve doesn’t look away from Max. “For the sake of covering bases-”

A slow grin inches across Max’s face; he’s seen that same grin before, playing over her step-brother’s lips. “I’ll check on him, Nance,” he grits, regrets throwing the stress ball at Jonathan.

Nancy doesn’t even seem phased by Steve’s aggression. “Sooner rather than later.”

“You’re in luck,” Max says, pleased. “I happen to know that he’s not working this morning; I’m sure he’ll be _relieved_ to see you.”

“ _Great_ ,” Steve replies. “I can’t wait to _ease_ his mind.”

\--

The moment Steve steps out onto the property, something feels anxiously inevitable. The cabin looks perfectly normal except that all the windows are wide open, which is strange, considering that it’s January and the current temperature is below freezing.

There’s frost laced over the ground, crunching gently every time Steve takes a step. His breath rolls out in a heavy mist, feels his lips dry in the frigid air, futilely sticks out his tongue to wet them.

As he walks up the steps, he can hear shuffling coming from inside. It’s incessant, like someone who can’t get comfortable.

Steve knocks on the front door, loud and steady.

“Get fucking lost!” Billy doesn’t sound right. Sounds strained and raspy, like a sore throat or a bad chest infection.

Moving to the nearest open window, Steve calls, “It’s Steve Harrington! Officer Mayfield was concerned for your safety-”

“I fucking know it’s _you_ , Harrington!” Billy’s breathing sounds labored, heavy and irregular. “Get away from the goddamn window!” His voice cracks on the last word, sharp.

Steve takes a step back, unsure, takes a moment to assess the situation. He stares stupidly into the cabin, the side angle the window provides him is of a whole wall of bookshelves, filled to the brim with various colored spines, different widths, both hard-covered and paperback. His teeth rock into his lower lip, brain hitching together pieces of the puzzle before him: the curious way all the windows are open even though it’s mid-winter, how sick Billy sounds, Max looking exceptionally irritated when Steve tried to pry for more information—

“He’s in _rut_ ,” Steve mumbles to himself, dread knotting firmly in the pit of his stomach. The dates are off; ruts come _after_ the Change. Unless something triggers it before then; stress, prolonged illness, an imbalance in hormones.

“You’re still there!” Billy yells, groaning faintly after. “Get off my fucking porch; Jesus Christ, you don’t know what you’re _doing_ to me.”

Steve knocks again, because he’s dumb. Because he just needs to check, see if Billy’s okay. (And undeniably, to see Billy at one of the lowest points he can be, feels especially vindictive after he left Steve mangled and torn the last time they met).

“Do you have a death wish, Harrington?”

“You don’t _scare_ me, Hargrove. Let me in or I’ll break down the door.”

There’s a palpable shift in the atmosphere as Steve says it, dangerous and threatening. The pause that comes afterward is just as stifling.

“Then _do_ it,” Billy dares, the change in tone is audible, pitched in a purr, like he’s setting a trap. “The door’s _unlocked_.”

Admittedly, Steve didn’t bring his bat; he never does when he’s dealing with Billy. Now, he thinks he’s better off without it. If it goes south with him, Steve would feel more satisfaction from his bare knuckles bruising Billy’s perfect, tanned skin.

He reaches out, the metal of the doorknob is icy under Steve’s grip, turns it and lets loose. The door drifts open sluggishly, whining on its hinges, rusty.

Billy is splayed out, muscles taut, against the soft leather of his couch. His hair is piled sloppily at the top of his head, wayward strands stuck to his nape, wet at his temples. He’s sweating, windows wide open in twenty-nine-degree weather, completely naked except for the loose pair of briefs clinging to his waistline. Steve can very blatantly see the tip of Billy’s cock peeping out from underneath the elastic.

Suddenly, apprehension blooms heavily in Steve’s chest, but he steps into the cabin regardless, lets the door eek shut behind him.

He eyes the chain of scar tissue draped over Billy’s left collarbone, the second time he’s been able to see it. The bite looks inflamed, red and welt-like. Perspiration beads readily from open pores, body trying desperately to cool off, fix the fever roaring beneath his skin. His pendant looks glued to his chest, almost protective.

When their eyes meet, Billy looks barely contained. He smiles, wild; canines full-out, beastly. “Should’ve run.”

“Officer Mayfield was concerned, said you’d been threatened; I've been thinking it might be from the informant who turned you in-”

Billy’s head rolls back against the arm of the couch, exposes his throat. “Old Man Lewis?”

“Who?” Of course, Steve knows who Old Man Lewis is, – a grouchy man who can be somewhat behind on the times – but Billy has just swept the rug out from under him and his brain is struggling to catch up.

“Your _informant_ ,” Billy drawls, slow like Steve’s stupid. “Lives a mile down the road. He likes me now.” He takes a moment to breathe, deep like his lungs need all the oxygen in the room. “I’m charming, sweet-talked him. Take his recyclables to the redemption center, his trash to the dump.” Billy groans, eyes clenched tight, chest heaving. “He thinks I’m a nice young man, even though I can be a little – _unkempt_ at times.”

“Max said you were finding bear-traps on your property, that someone left you death threats. Why would she lie-”

Billy shifts up, quick, eyes waxy but focused. “Because she’s a conniving little _witch_.”

“She set me up,” Steve realizes bluntly, too late.

“She set both of us up,” Billy corrects. “Jesus, fuck. Can you come closer? Do you know how _good_ you smell?”

“I’m not doing that, Hargrove.”

“Not so brave anymore, are you, _Venator_?” Billy spits. He slides off the couch in a shuddering wave, looks ungainly as his spine straightens.

“How did she know?”

“Know _what_?”

“That you were like-” Steve stumbles, halts awkwardly mid-sentence, “like _this_.”

“In _rut_?” Billy sneers. His bones crack and creak as he stretches. “She came over yesterday, said I looked sick. Knows what the symptoms are.” When he looks to Steve, gold gleams eerily at his irises, like his eyes were never blue. Billy’s tongue hangs out, drags ugly over his chin, lupine. Leaves it glistening with spit. “Sure you don’t wanna come closer? I won’t _bite_ , promise.”

Billy moving from the couch must’ve shifted something in the air, because all Steve can smell is woodsmoke, thicker than it’s ever been, clogging up his lungs. His lips part, can taste it on his tongue, cloying and warm. It smells _nice_ , wants to bottle the scent and drench himself in it, take it home and spill it all over his sheets. A pool of saliva floods the dip behind his lower teeth, forces him to swallow so it doesn’t press out of the corners of his mouth, leave him drooling.

He can swallow all he wants, but. His mouth is wet, so fucking wet, when he speaks, “Not worried about your bite.” It’s not so cold in the room anymore; his extra layers become unbearable.

The whites of Billy’s eyes are glazed and heated; they only see Steve. Billy maintains the distance between them, dodges the coffee table without even looking. He moves like he’s in pain, moves like he’s stalking prey. When he gets to the wall, he pushes back to pace to the couch, eyes roaming over Steve the entire time, looking for an opening, a weakness.

“You look a little flushed; I can take your coat,” Billy offers, sickly, sweet in a way that makes Steve’s stomach flutter. Billy’s cock has dipped back below that waistband; a wet spot forming on the grey fabric where the slit leaks pre. Curling over, Billy clenches his teeth, breaks out in a fresh sweat. The room reeks of a forest fire, burning sap and cracking wood.

Steve’s jacket, rusty-red corduroy lined with lambswool, is saturated in the scent. He watches Billy as he shucks it off, drops it to the floor behind him.

Something in Billy snaps; he’s panting, groaning. Furious, he snarls, “I told you to _leave_. I did. I _tried_.”

The hackles raise on Steve’s neck, heat broiling low behind his navel, urgent. The atmosphere they’ve created is heady. Every inhale feels like untapped arousal, but there’s ill-tempered aggression that breeds with it; they twine together, indistinguishable from one another. “And what if I leave now?” Steve suggests, like his fingers aren’t folding into fists, like his muscles aren’t bunched in anticipation.

“You can _try_ ,” Billy drawls thickly, something vulturine in the way he slinks his way back over to the wall, knows Steve doesn’t mean it. “I’ll give you a head start, see how far you get.”

“The second I turn around, your teeth will be in my throat.”

“You say that like you won’t _enjoy_ it.” He rocks forward, pushing away from the wall, finally encroaching on Steve.

Only Steve doesn’t budge as Billy eats up his space, so close now that Steve can feel every exhale, smell the danger held in Billy’s breath. Something tells him to plant his feet and grow roots; adapt to survive. Evolve. “Not your rabbit; you don’t get a chase from me.”

“I see those clenched fists. You gonna fight me then?” Billy says, leaning in. It’s Billy’s sole warning to Steve: _get ready_. “If you hit, Harrington, you better hit hard and hope it s _ticks_. You won’t get a second chance.”

“And if I lose what comes after, huh?” Steve prompts, watching the way black pupil eclipses gold. He knows the answer, wants to hear Billy s _ay_ it.

“If?” Billy counters, sly. He’s shaking, a subtle shiver that rocks him bone deep. They’re toeing the edge of that cliff; Steve can practically taste the fall. Billy moves back, a foot, two; his posture doesn’t change, not truly, but the attack is imminent. “Walking through that door was the worst mistake you’ve ever made. Gonna make sure you _know_ that.”

Billy lunges, only for Steve to knock away his outstretched arms, slams his elbow into the bridge of Billy’s nose. When Billy sways back, Steve’s fist comes swinging out in a right hook, insult to injury, catches Billy hard in the jaw, head snapping to the side.

‘ _Shit_ , Harrington,” Billy crows, face bloody. “That hurt _real_ fucking bad.” He wipes gingerly at his leaking nose with the back of his hand, licks at his own blood after. Those golden-rimmed pupils sinking right into Steve as he does it, rasps, “Like it when you fight.”

Shaking out his hand, breathing uneven, Steve just stares at the display. It’s a train wreck; he’s unable to look away, disgusted and entranced. Sure enough, Billy notices that distraction, finally gets his opening.

Billy’s hand swipes out, whip-quick. He backhands Steve; the force of it knocking him off-kilter. Steve can feel Billy’s spit and blood smear over his cheek as it happens, and Billy seizes the opportunity to snag Steve by his cable-knit sweater, yank him until they’re chest to chest.

They’re both breathless, mouths inches apart. “You seein’ stars yet, honey?” Billy asks, cruel. Laughs when Steve bares his teeth. “No? Don’t worry, we’ll get there.”

In retaliation, Steve slams his forehead into Billy’s face. The action is imprecise, misses the mark of Billy’s already-injured nose, hits him in the crest of his cheek instead. The resounding _crack_ rattles through Steve’s skull, makes him dizzy, sends his own teeth slicing into his bottom lip, stinging.

“Shit move, Harrington,” he hears Billy slur, feels him grab tight at the back of his neck, crane Steve’s head back. Billy assesses the wound, how it’s already causing the lip to swell, weeping red. His other hand comes up, presses hard at it with the pad of his thumb.

“ _Stop it_ ,” Steve hisses, wraps his fingers tight around Billy’s wrist, nails biting into the skin as he tries to pull the hand away.

“Does it hurt? Want me to kiss it better?” The thumb thrusts into Steve’s mouth, wedges between his teeth to anchor his tongue. Billy leans in to lap at Steve’s bloody lip before sucking greedily at the cut. It burns, acidic, makes Steve’s eyes water and his vision swim.

Bodies pressed flush together, Steve can feel how hard Billy is, feel the way Billy’s cock kicks as it brushes roughly against Steve’s thigh. Slowly, Steve becomes aware of his own dick, swelling and straining against the confines of his pants. Billy’s blatant abuse of Steve’s mouth only serves to make him harder, seek friction of a different sort.

Billy pries Steve’s jaw wider, thumb pulling out so Billy can move in, kiss Steve properly. His hands push at Steve’s hips, commanding, tries to herd him towards the couch. Fingertips slide underneath his sweater, roam up over ribs, drag down his spine. His mouth slips down, canines scraping across Steve’s pulse, ungentle.

Digging the heel of his palm into Billy’s chest, Steve shoves at him, gets mild satisfaction from the brief look of stunned surprise that spills over Billy’s features, the way a snarl reveals those predatory canines. “Not just gonna roll over for you, Hargrove.”

“Yeah?” Billy affirms, rough. Curls two fingers in Steve’s waistband to touch at the coarse splay of hair there. “Think you’ll show me your belly soon enough.”

And that’s true, because somehow, Billy has hooked his foot around the heel of Steve’s boot, shoves him back sharply at the same time he sweeps Steve’s leg out from underneath him.

Steve’s back jars from the fall, knows there will be bruises in the morning from where his hips hit the hardwood floor. His mind stagnates as Billy crawls atop him, pins Steve down with the press of one firm hand to his sternum, rucks up his sweater with the other. Billy’s pelvis rocks into Steve’s as he does it, so good in the way it rubs their cocks together.

Panting, Steve’s mouth hangs open as Billy leans over him. Nose still bloody, it drips unimpeded to splatter on Steve’s chin, blooms fresh copper on the flat of Steve’s tongue. Hungrily, Billy watches Steve swallow the flavor, parts his lips like he wants more. The way Billy licks up his cheek is filthy, drags all the way to his temple and into his hair, leaving behind a trail of blood as he does it.

“Imagine the scandal,” Billy murmurs hotly, continues to rut against Steve, nasty and imperfect. “If your _Venator_ friends knew about your _dreams_ ,” his voice catches on a groan, “about how I’ve been craving peaches in the middle of winter and how you want to burn a forest just for the _smell_.”

“Get offa me,” Steve mutters, but his hands are fastened at Billy’s waist, encouraging.

“Imagine if they could see you right now.” He’s still leaning over Steve, mouth pressed to his ear. “I’ve made a mess out of you, haven’t I?” Billy taunts, sounding more desperate than malicious. The hand on Steve’s chest slides over to scrape at his nipple, harsh; Steve’s hips lurch up at the action, involuntary.  “I think it’s only _fair_ after what you’ve done to me.” Billy’s breathing hitches, just barely. “I’m a _wreck_ without you. This is all _your_ fault.”

The admission makes Steve angry, makes heat burn in his belly where Billy rocks against him. He tilts his head without thinking, digs his teeth into the curve where Billy’s throat meets his shoulder. Hopes that it fucking _hurts_ , that it bruises and aches for days after.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Billy gasps, wild, as he shoves himself up, weight balanced on sore knees. Pins Steve by the throat when he tries to follow. His free hand yanks his briefs down just enough to release his cock, thick and full and leaking, drooling into Steve’s navel as Billy jerks it roughly.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ come on me,” Steve grits, like that isn’t e _xactly_ what he wants, one hand grasping at the wrist holding him down. He knows, somewhere in the primal-gutter of his brain that if Billy covers him, he’ll come too. Untouched and easy.

The fingers on his throat squeeze. “Why’d you bite me then, huh? You know what that _means_ and you did it _anyway_ ,” Billy says, hips thrusting into his clenched fist. “Fuck, ‘m gonna come.”

“ _Don’t-_ ” Steve starts, because he’s halfway falling himself, but Billy doesn’t _listen_. The first spurt hits Steve’s bare stomach like a brand, but Steve only _feels_ it because he’s too busy watching Billy’s face. His jaw hangs open, lips and tongue pink against his flushed cheeks, messy bun trickling loose curls down his nape and into his eyes. The pendant dangles around Billy’s neck, shiny from the sweat on his chest.

The second rope lands, higher this time, just kissing his left nipple and Steve’s pelvis hitches up with an aborted movement as his own orgasm overtakes him, eyes drifting shut as he bites his tongue, refusing to give Billy the satisfaction of hearing him moan.

In the aftermath, Billy stares down at Steve, huffing. His palm slides from his throat to Steve’s stomach, fingers splaying wide in the mess he’s made there. Rubs his come into Steve’s skin, smirks as he does it. “You smell like me now, you know that?” he asks, coy. “Gonna send you back to your _friends_ just like this. Reeking of me and covered in my fucking come.”

There’s no post-orgasmic bliss for Steve, just slow, seething anger at Billy’s words, wants Billy to be angry too. Before he can truly think about what he’s doing, he reaches out, tangles his fingers in the delicate chain decorating Billy’s neck, and _rips_. Up close, the pendant hangs from Steve’s fist like a sour note, off-key. He assumed it was just another saint, that Billy wore the pendant _ironically_ , like an asshole. But the figure adorning the silver is much more ominous, prickles like unwelcome needles across Steve’s flesh.

“Hircine?” Steve croaks, eyes glued to the antlers pressed into the metal, the way they protrude from the deer skull serving as a face for a human man.

Billy snarls, grapples with Steve as he regains possession of the necklace. “Didn’t anyone tell you not to take shit that isn’t yours?”

Disregarding the absolute hypocrisy of what Billy just said, Steve’s brain works in overtime, fumbling through memories, trying to find any evidence that Billy would be _devout_ in any sense of the word. “You believe? In a legend?” Steve manages, both curious and cautious of the answer he may receive.

Billy stills and the earth settles, seems to cease orbit. Billy eyes become almost ancient, inhuman. “I _believe_ ,” he confirms, quiet and strange. Unsettling. His chest is still heaving, warmth pouring off him in waves. Those canines flash; Billy’s smile is monstrous. “Do I scare you now, Steve?” He asks, shifting back, looks pleased when he notices the stain on the front of Steve’s khakis. He rubs his knuckles against the spot in a way that’s shockingly affectionate.

Steve’s mind still feels water-logged, heavy. He awkwardly tugs down at his sweater to cover the tacky skin. “Seen scarier,” he replies with his heart in his throat.

Billy hums, lets Steve know that he doesn’t really believe him. “Better leave soon,” Billy suggests casually, still stroking at the wet spot on Steve’s pants. “If you stay too long, you won’t be able to move when I’m through with you.”

Crawling out from underneath Billy, Steve can feel his eyes on him as he fails at trying to right himself. “This doesn’t change anything,” Steve asserts uselessly, like saying it will make it true.

“This changes everything,” Billy responds, and when Steve looks, the pendant is back around Billy’s neck, looking innocent and innocuous. He pushes back into Steve’s space, cups his hand around his jaw to reel Steve in, laves one last time at the aching split in his lip. Steve lets it happen, doesn’t even wince at the sharp sting this time.

“You didn’t run, but I still _caught_ you,” Billy says as he pulls away. It’s a final thing, sounds eerily similar to a life sentence; _all the better to hold you down_. “You’re mine, Harrington. Remember that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to quote the one asshole from AP bio sophomore year of highschool: no one wins with a headbutt. 
> 
> as always, special thanks to eternalgoldfish, for looking this over and listening to me whine my insecurities. she's solid gold, 24 karat, take that shit to the bank. she's swell.
> 
> also, shout out to sightetsound, i'm sorry i teased you with snapshots, and thank you for letting me scream at you incessantly. god bless you. 
> 
> lemme know what you think? you know i'm thirsty for it. and come hang with me on [tumblr](http://uncaringerinn.tumblr.com/)? i promise i won't bite. ;)


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